


For Will; I Dedicate To You

by SStar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, POV John Watson, POV Mary Morstan, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=130843001#t130843001">sherlockbbc_fic kink meme prompt</a>: Mycroft is secretly a very prolific children's author writing under a pseudonym. Sherlock secretly ADORES the books because sentiment - they remind him the stories his brother told him when he was a child.</p>
<p>Neither of them know about the other's association with the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing but my own imagination.
> 
> Unbeta'd but edited - all mistakes are my very own.

Mary had almost finished the somewhat messy activity of burping her daughter, a soiled towel on a shoulder, and she was enjoying the absence of noise in her home. She and John loved their little girl and while both were used to prolonged periods of time without sleep, the cries of their baby daughter at night were beginning to fray on their nerves. Mary, being who she was, had done her research and she knew crying at night was just a phase in a baby’s development but she secretly hoped her daughter would be ahead of the curve so they could all get some much needed sleep.

_Knock, knock._

Mary jerked, turning to face the door, the arm holding her daughter tightened fractionally as she felt for a gun she no longer carried. She mentally berated herself; she was safe Mary Elizabeth Watson, wife and mother – retired, off the grid and invisible. Despite this she couldn’t quell the thought that she wasn’t expecting any visitors today and unexpected guests almost always came bearing bad news.

Quickly but cautiously she approached the front door, not wanting her visitor to press the doorbell, the shrill noise likely to set her daughter off. Opening the door with her free hand, she looked up and was started at the person who stood on her doorstep.

“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Mrs Watson,” he replied in a pleasant but bland tone. Her visitor was clad in his usual business attire, a grey three-piece suit this time, with his customary umbrella and a package in his hands rather than the manila file she might have expected.

For a moment Mary debated the merits of closing the door on the British Government and sharing the tale with John over dinner and laughter that night but quickly dismissed it, instead she opened the door to allow the taller man entrance into her home, her territory. Her keen eyes made a note of the black car parked outside in the street and a second glance confirmed no the absence of sharpshooters. It was only as she led Mycroft into the main living room, she realised that he’d been watching her as she assessed the potential threat level.

“I can assure you that only my driver, a diary assistant and myself in the immediate area. You need not fear the presence of snipers from my end,” Mycroft offered as his eyes flicked to the bundle in her arms. “My apologies, I didn’t meant to interrupt your routine with your daughter.”

Mary was smart enough to be wary of Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, patriot, brother. Unlike John who mostly saw him as Sherlock’s – interfering – older brother, Mary had been privy to Mycroft’s file in her past life. His background file had been light in detail and substance, but held enough for Mary to know what sort of man he was. And he had only become more powerful in the years since. Having spent most of his time avoiding any significant interaction with Mary, the elder Holmes was now in her home and he wanted to speak to Mary. Mary couldn’t help but think she’d be more comfortable being in Mycroft Holmes’ presence with her gun within reach.

“Its fine, so long as you don’t mind while I make sure this little one is burped out,” she replied politely as she paced in a small circle. There was a look in his eyes as he watched with her daughter that she couldn’t quite identify but it disappeared almost as soon as she had noticed it.

Mycroft had also chosen to remain standing although he did take a moment to place the package he’d brought with him on the coffee table. “I realise we haven’t had the opportunity to talk,” he started. “I thought the time right to rectify that now that the situation with Magnussen and its consequences have passed and the Moriarty threat subdued.”

Mary raised an eyebrow as she wiped at her daughter’s mouth and chin with a clean corner of her soiled towel. “I imagine it would have also somewhat unseemly to threaten a pregnant woman a few months ago?”

“I’m led to believe that it’s most unwise to upset a pregnant woman under _any_ circumstance,” Mycroft riposted.

“Although one who’s given birth not six months ago is fair game?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and merely tilted his head to indicate _yes_.

Mary went for the direct approach. “What do you want to say to me?”

“I have a gift for your daughter, a celebration of her birth and to her health,” Mycroft replied, startling Mary with the sharp change in direction. “Well perhaps it might be more accurate to say it’s something that you and John might find beneficial to use with your daughter until she’s old enough herself.”

Mary blinked. The elder Holmes had taken her by surprise and she struggled to anticipate the man; a deliberate ploy on his part no doubt. Her gaze strayed to the package, sitting innocently on the coffee table. “Excuse me?”

Mycroft smiled again, the bland one, as he waved a hand at the package. “Please,” he encouraged her.

Checking that her daughter had finally finished burping and had fallen asleep, Mary took a minute to make sure her daughter was secure in the small bassinet they kept in the room before she sat down on the sofa. Her hands made quick work of the paper wrapping and she found herself staring at the revealed gift.

“Books?” she asked Mycroft, still standing and who now towered over her. “I know you and Sherlock are … well, _Holmes_ , so you had a pretty skewed development curve but I’m pretty sure my daughter won’t be making use of books for a fair few years to come,” she continued. “Especially Amelia Kipling’s children stories.”

Mary picked up the top book from the stack – hardback, embossed text in gold print, a special edition. The set of books would have looked at home in a Victorian nursery, she realised. With care, Mary opened the book. After all, it wouldn’t do to crack the spine in Mycroft’s company or at all as she glanced at the dedication page.

“This is a _first_ edition,” she said in surprise, as she carefully set the book aside and picked up another. “This one’s a second edition … and this is another first!”

Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on his umbrella. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to procure a full set of first editions,” he replied. “However I assure you this collection still remains enviable in the eyes of collectors.”

“But … _why_?”

“I am led to believe you’re more than capable of working that out in short order.”

Mycroft’s full attention had turned to Mary, keen blue eyes observing her reactions, read her thought through her minute twitches and Mary recognised this was a test. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to read anything in Mycroft, unless he wanted her to, so the answer had to be in the books. She picked up the first book in the set and looked closely. _The Oncoming Storm._

The dedication page.

**_For Will. To the little boy who dreamt of adventures and then grew up to live them._ **

Mary gives a short laugh. “For Will. Oh my god, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

“Remarkable,” Mycroft said, confirming that she was correct in her supposition.

Mary blinked and something cold curled in her gut. “You know.” A statement, delivered in a cold, flat tone.

Mycroft made a noise of derision. “I’ve been aware of Mary Morstan for quite a while now,” he said. “And then I knew everything about _you_ , Mrs Watson, a mere thirty minutes after that.”

Mary took a sharp breath and quelled her instinctive response to threaten Mycroft Holmes. “Why didn’t you tell Sherlock?”

“I concluded that you presented no threat to John Watson,” Mycroft said, but then his voice grew deeper, introspective. “I deeply regret, however, that I did not foresee the threat you posed to my little brother.”

Mary’s eyes flicked to her daughter, still safely asleep. She arched an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”

“I think we can safely say the damage has already been done, don’t you?”

Mary couldn’t think of a suitable response so she turned her notice back to the _gift_ Mycroft had bought her daughter. Her hand traced the dedication before she closed the book and opened another to the same page. **_For Will. Who proved that who we are isn’t about what we do but what we’re capable of when it’s least expected._** “Why expose yourself?”

Mary looked up to see the elder Holmes’ face was impassive, implacable. “As the business with Magnessen no doubt confirmed, Sherlock is my pressure point.”

Mary dipped her head in acknowledgement and waited for Mycroft to continue.

“Sherlock’s always been so … sentimental,” Mycroft continued in a toneless voice. “Were he not, things would be so much simpler, however be that it may, as he has already proven he will protect John and yourself. Even to his own detriment.”

Mycroft’s eyes dropped to the floor, lost in memories Mary supposed, so she waited.

Mycroft finally looked up, focussed on Mary. “Had you actually chosen to kill Magnussen that night, I would have protected you,”

Mary blinked as she processed the non sequitur. “I … what?”

“I want you to come to me if you ever find yourself in a similar position in the future,” Mycroft continued.

“To protect me?”

“To protect you and your family,” Mycroft confirmed much to Mary’s astonishment. “Because it’s the only way I can protect Sherlock.”

Because ultimately that was what Mycroft cared about, and Mary couldn’t blame him for that. “Does he know?”

“That I have come to see you today? No.”

Mary shook her head, ignoring Mycroft’s obvious redirection. “I mean, does he know that you are Amelia Kipling?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, far too quickly in Mary’s opinion. “At least he’s never mentioned it.” The second part of that statement – _teased me about it_ – hung unspoken in the air. “I doubt he’s even aware of the books. Or if he ever was, he’s deleted it.”

Mary smiled, a genuine smile, at Mycroft. “I promise I won’t tell him.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite the surprise, you know,” Mary remarked.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Mary hummed. “Yes. What inspired you to write these,” she asked, gesturing at the stack of books.

The elder Holmes looked as though he was fighting the urge to fidget as he finally answered. “You’ve seen my, our, childhood home. It’s …”

“Beautiful.”

“Yes. And remote,” Mycroft added. “A fertile ground for young boys’ imaginations to grow wild and run free.”

“You’re what? Seven years older than Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“Yes.”

“Bed-time stories?”

“Yes.” Mary didn’t know what else to say on the subject and Mycroft looked as though he’d said more than he’d expected to.

Mary took a deep breath, her stomach twisted but she forced the words out regardless. “If something were to happen … you’ll protect my daughter.”

“What about John?”

Mary’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “We both know that he’d be torn between protecting our daughter and bringing hell on whomever was responsible,” Mary replied. “I doubt anything you or I could do would be able to safeguard either John, or Sherlock.”

The lack of surprise from Mycroft paradoxically comforted her. “You’ve already considered the scenario.”

“I deemed it sensible to consider all the probabilities,” Mycroft confirmed. “And yes I will, although I sincerely hope that it need not come to that.”

“I hope my trust isn’t misplaced.”

“Nor mine, MrsWatson,” Mycroft responded. “I should be going.”

A quick glance at the bassinet assured Mary that her daughter was still sleeping, although it was likely she would once again keep her up during that night. “Thank you for the gift,” she said to Mycroft as she stood up.

“Perhaps something to read to little girls who stay awake at night? I found it worked on little brothers.”

Mary couldn’t hold back a small smile. Mycroft Holmes, British Government, the most dangerous man she’d ever met; a caring, indulgent big brother. The last aspect to the man was something that had never appeared in his background file amongst other agencies, and never would if Mycroft had his way, which he would, Mary knew.

But it didn’t stop it from being the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of this tale detailing Sherlock's story. Of how he adores the Amelia Kipling books, a reminder of his childhood, not realising that Mycroft is in fact the author and the books are written for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes an brief allusion to an ACD story.

When John opened the front door to his garden-level flat he was unsurprised to see Sherlock on the other side. They’d just wrapped up a case the day before, a tolerably – according to Sherlock – interesting case involving a Member of Parliament, a floating duck island and a trained ballet dancer currently performing in a production of _Swan Lake_. Privately, John suspected his best friend would have been more inclined to label it ‘quite interesting’ if it hadn’t been for the simple fact that the case referral came from Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, stepping back to let the taller man in. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“A case, John,” Sherlock replied, irritation clear in his tone. “I need an interesting case!”

“Have you tried Lestrade?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock spat back before lowering his voice when they entered the living room. “Sergeant Donovan picked up his phone and, well, best not repeat what she said in front of innocent ears.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s only just off six months, Sherlock. I doubt my daughter will be picking up any of your bad habits just yet.”

Sherlock threw him a fleeting smile as he wandered over to peer into the small cot at his daughter, who was merrily amusing herself as babies tended to do. “I wasn’t talking about this little lady,” he retorted. “Although, on that note, research does indicate that at six months old a baby’s communications skills are developing at a rapid rate.

“Admittedly most of it is babbling, squealing and the sort but I’m led to believe that she might be soon capable of repeating single syllable words,” Sherlock continued. “Apparently the done thing is to pretend everything she says is of the utmost interest, even if it is unintelligible, to encourage them to continue chattering away. One then hopes that in short order, the nonsense will become coherence, although not in all cases I grant you.”

John barely held back a snort of amusement at Sherlock’s dismissive tone of voice. “You don’t sound convinced, Sherlock.”

“Well the only empirical evidence I’m aware of, and as you know, John, I prefer to undertake my own experiments and or observations, is of Mycroft, albeit many years after the event itself, and we all know how well that turned out. He’s practically England,” Sherlock replied, with a roll of eyes sky bound. “Mummy did indulge him so and there is video evidence of that.”

This time John couldn’t hold back his amused snort and he grinned. “Come on then, spill! How old was Mycroft when he started to talk? Proper words, I mean.”

“Apparently he was able to string enough words together to _order_ our parents about at the grand old age of thirteen months.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

“He was always an over-achieving show-off.”

John couldn’t force down the giggle at the sight of Sherlock pouting. “Sorry!” he apologised.

“Mycroft took great delight in the fact that I had turned sixteen months before I could do the same,” Sherlock complained and having grown bored to baby-watching it seemed, had flounced over to the sofa and was making a minor production of settling himself upon it. “Didn’t fail to remind me how he used to spend hours each day trying to get me to repeat words after him and how I was pathologically incapable of achieving such a simple task.”

“He kept reminding me how I was much more interested in pulling at his hair to get his attention than in saying his name. You do know he blames me for his disappearing hair, John. Me!” Sherlock exclaimed. “He’s just jealous of my full head of hair. And if you let him, he’ll go on for an age about how I was too stupid to comprehend his name and called him Mikey for over a year.”

“Sherlock,” John chastised. “I know Mycroft is a little … _overbearing_ but surely you’re being a trite unfair? Perhaps he was just proud?”

Sherlock merely huffed in reply.

“Plus being a show-off obviously runs in the family,” John teased as he took a seat near his daughter, who was thankfully still happily gurgling away in her cot.

“Well there’s only so much you could do when you grow up where we did,” Sherlock acceded. “We had to amuse ourselves somehow. We used to pretend to act out stories, plays and pretend swordfights and battles until it got _boring_ of course.”

John managed to hide his surprise. As well as he knew Sherlock, being one of a very select group of people the consulting detective had opened himself up to, even he knew little about his childhood, how he – and Mycroft – had grown up. Even after meeting Sherlock’s parents the previous Christmas; granted finding the small photo collection of the two Holmes brothers as little boys at the back of the elder Holmes’ living room had been an absolutely brilliant discovery. Thankfully neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had yet realised he’d taken pictures of the brothers as little kids on his phone and shared them with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. So far.

“Knowing you as an adult when you’re bored, I’m surprised your parents didn’t simply just toss you outside, lock the door and wait until you exhausted yourself running around that huge field of yours,” John said.

A smile ghosted on Sherlock’s lips. “They did. Mycroft predicted that one day our parents would resort to such a measure and he snuck out of the house and took me to this little stash of food, water and some books he had put away in one of the dormant burrows in the nearby fields. It was close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk too far but far away enough that our parents couldn’t see us,” the detective recollected. “Mycroft spent the entire day telling me stories.”

“I’d never have taken Mycroft to be such a regular boy scout,” John commented with a grin.

“Overbearing, nosy busy-body you mean.”

John sighed, deciding that he was in no position to chastise Sherlock for his somewhat misguided opinions about his big brother, whom he obviously did care about on some level even if he didn’t demonstrate it, given his own fractious relationship with Harry. “Why did you come here again?”

“I’m _bored_.”

“You know, I think you might actually be worse than my daughter,” John observed.

“That’s because she can’t talk yet,” Sherlock replied. “Are you managing to sleep through the night yet?”

John perked up a little. “A little more but that to be expected, she’ll calm down until she starts teething at which point we’ll be right back at step one,” he explained. “We’ve just recently started reading to her when she does wake up, she seems to like it. Not that she understands what we’re reading aloud.”

“Books like that baby book with the funny caterpillar?”

“Huh?” John was momentarily stumped but then the answer hit him. “Oh you mean the _Very Hungry Caterpillar_! I remember that from my own childhood … but no. It’s a book series by someone called Amanda Kipling?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “No, John,” he chastised. “Not Amanda, _Amelia_ Kipling.”

“Right, Amelia. You know the books?”

Sherlock entire body language had changed, now leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees and John wondered whether he ought to worry given the look on Sherlock’s face was similar enough to that when the consulting detective was facing a serial killer. Gleeful. Intrigued.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he twisted his head around the small room and John found himself surprised again that he could read Sherlock’s excitement so easily. That his friend, so reticent and controlled most of the time, was instantly transparent at the mention of a simple children’s author. “Where are the … ah, you keep them in here!”

Just as suddenly, whilst John was still wrapping his mind around this new fact about his friend, Sherlock was up on his feet and taking the few steps around the sofa to the random collection of books he and Mary kept in the small built-in cupboards. The clatter of wood indicated Sherlock had pulled out the children’s book set and John was entirely certain he heard a surprised and happy sigh come from the taller man.

“John, these are the special edition versions of her books!”

John shrugged. “Apparently so. Mary said something about the set being a mix of first and second editions I think.”

Sherlock threw him a look. Not _the_ look, the one that said he should know something because it was just so obvious to him and should be to everyone else when it was anything but. Instead this was the look the detective usually threw at him when John wasn’t quite up to his expected standards.

John bit back a frustrated growl – he hated that look just as much as the other one – as Sherlock carefully set the collection down on the coffee table and started to examine the books, inside and out.

“Mary’s right,” Sherlock confirmed, holding one of the books up to show John a specific page – the dedication page. “This is a second edition, and this one here,” he pointed to another book, “has this particular mark that is on all of Amelia Kipling’s first editions. The second editions have a separate mark, and they’re both replicated on the spine of the books too. See?”

Sherlock pointed to a squiggly mark that meant nothing whatsoever to John, but he could see matching marks in the stack of books spread across the low table. “Okay,” John acknowledged. “But it’s a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”

“Of course, there aren’t any third editions of her books, in the specials print run,” Sherlock explained, ignoring John’s comment. “It makes these editions quite rare to find and own since of course, the publishers would only run a limited volume of first and second print runs. I think, perhaps, only a couple of hundred copies? They’re collector items!”

“Sherlock?” John asked slowly. “How do you know all of this?”

“Oh, I have all of her books,” Sherlock explained breezily. “A full set of first editions of course. I solved a case for a book collector a few years ago – run of the mill case in the end, rather boring, but in lieu of payment I asked if she could acquire a full set of Amelia Kipling first editions for me. Took her quite a while to track down a full set of but it was worth it. She also makes sure I’m on _The List_ for any future books.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle, ignoring Sherlock’s replying affronted look. “But Sherlock, this Kipling person. She writes _children’s_ books. Aren’t you a little … old for that?”

“Great stories stand the test of time, John,” Sherlock answered. “When you’re young, such books, those specific stories are the means by which you create the world in your mind, your imagination. It can be as great and as big as you _want_ it to be or as small and intimate as you _need_ it to be. And when you’re older … and you go back to that same story. It’s still there.

“The same words in the same order. And you might still inhabit that imagined world just as you did when you were a child, or, as great stories are wont to be, it will have changed as you yourself have changed and be something new, be something wonderful again.”

“Wow,” John said, a little embarrassed at his teasing of Sherlock just a moment earlier but in awe at the picture his friend painted so elegantly. “I didn’t realise you were quite so enthusiastic, so romantic, about fiction books.”

“Not just any fiction books, John. _Amelia Kipling’s_ stories,” Sherlock corrected, as his fingers slid over the hardback covers, tracing the embossed gold title calligraphy script. “Her books are a cut above most of those authors and books purporting to be fiction.”

“So what’s so special about Kipling then?” John asked. His interest rose even higher when he noticed Sherlock had averted his gaze, was now wholly focussed on the book in his hand.

“I, well … you see, John,” Sherlock started to say, verbally procrastinating. “The books, her stories. They remind me of…”

John waited patiently as the consulting detective trailed off, something he had in great spades when it came to Sherlock, and plastered an encouraging look on his face when Sherlock glanced at him before averting his gaze. Clearly something personal going by the uncharacteristic hesitation.

“The airstrip. In January, John. Do you remember my telling you about the East Wind,” Sherlock said in an apparent shift in conversation.

“The East Wind,” John repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes as he mentally searched his memory. “That takes us all in the end. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.”

Sherlock nodded. “Seeking out the unworthy and plucking them from the Earth.”

“You said Mycroft told you that story when you were young,” John recalled.

“We were both kids, if you can imagine it. The very first time Mycroft told me the tale about the East Wind was when I was learning everything there was about the history of England, of Great Britain,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve deleted most of it now but I do remember reading all about The Great War, the First World War, and Mycroft used the story of the East Wind to explain how a better, stronger land was left once the storm had passed.”

John felt, and was sure he looked, nonplussed. “Right…”

“That very night, I had an awful nightmare,” Sherlock continued, very much lost in his own memory. “Mummy was terribly upset with Mycroft for telling me all about what happened on the frontlines in the war. Said I was too young.”

“How old were you?”

“Six,” Sherlock answered, in a tone indicating he thought he had been old enough. “Mycroft never repeated that story the same way again. He changed it so while it was still about The Great War, the East Wind now searched for the unworthy – _me_ – to take them instead from this Earth. I used to tell Mycroft that since _he_ was the one who was always in trouble with Mummy surely he would be the one the East Wind would take, but I didn’t know enough about the art of storytelling to tell the story my way until after Mycroft had left for university and was much too old for stories.

“My brother had lots of other stories though. I was a terrible sleeper even as a child so Mycroft would tell me all sorts of stories when I couldn’t sleep. About pirates and knights, Romans and Saxons, dragons and spies and more.”

John blinked. He was stunned at the revelation, lost for words.

“I wager Mycroft would never admit to it, even if held at gunpoint,” Sherlock continued, his words twined with both bitterness and yearning. “ _Sentiment_ , he’d say in that disapproving tone of his. But these stories, the ones Amelia Kipling tells, they’re like a window to my childhood. The tales she weaves, the characterisations of her protagonists and villains, her foreshadowing and clever wordplays. They’re almost … like a _memory_.”

“You’re smitten,” John finally managed to say and he couldn’t repress a grin, ignoring the scowl Sherlock threw at him. “Have you ever met the author?”

“Amelia Kipling is a recluse; doesn’t do book signings, readings or any sort of publicity. What is known about her is mostly rumours and conjecture,” Sherlock answered. “Her reticence for public appearances is one of the reasons she insisted on the run of special editions I think. But to answer your question, John, no. I’ve never met her.”

“Ah, but you don’t need to meet her?” John declared. “You could deduce her!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple, John. You know that,” he chastised. “And there is very little to be going on with Amelia Kipling. She seems rather inscrutable on the whole. _Obviously_ the visual style and presentation of her books, both specials and mass markets, mean she’s someone who considers the external veneer, the outward form, to be important but not at the expense of the content, the story. She appreciates elegance, quality and good materials, again evident from the format and visual display of her books.

“The only other clear indication we have of the author is through her dedications, John,” Sherlock continued. “They’re all to the same person, this _Will_. A son or a brother? If the latter, then certainly a younger brother. There’s a tone of affection in the words and also clearly some level of guilt.

“Take the dedication in this book: **_For Will. To be absent is not to be without care, nor attention or regard._** Lends itself to a brother more than a son. Obviously at some point the relationship between Amelia Kipling and this brother has become strained and Kipling has chosen to channel those _feelings_ through her writings but it’s also clear she still cares for, loves him. It shines through the somewhat overtly sentimental dedication.”

“I feel like I should get you a ‘ _Kipling’s number one fan_ ’ badge or something, Sherlock,” John teased.

“Really, John,” Sherlock replied in a derisive tone of voice. “Can’t one just enjoy a book without the need to adulate over the author?”

John chose to ignore Sherlock before he started a rant on the subject, instead standing up and waving a hand towards the kitchen. “Cup of tea?”

Sherlock made a sharp movement with his own hand in reply but his attention had turned back to the book in his hand and at this angle, John could see he was re-reading the dedication page, his fingers tracking the text as his mouth silently moved in concert.

John ambled to the small kitchen and set about the task of making two cups of tea and prepping a small bottle for his daughter. A few minutes later, carrying the prepared drinks back to the living room, John was surprised to see and hear Sherlock reading out loud from one of the Amelia Kipling books – reading to his daughter. He realised he was taken aback not just at the enraptured look on his beautiful daughter’s face but at the contented deep timbre of Sherlock’s voice, the hint of a smile on his lips, as he read.

John, quietly and carefully so not to distract Sherlock or his daughter, made his way back to the sofa, set aside the drinks and made himself comfortable as he listened to his best friend bring a simple story to life. Brought John and his daughter into the special imagined world he was creating from Amelia Kipling’s words.


End file.
